Of Rigel Kent
by sekdaniels
Summary: Centaurs and separation. A reflection on what is means to be human; and how much it takes to recognize that in others. AU. From round 2 of the International Wizarding School Competition, Ilvermorny School. Exploring: how the wizarding society treats those that are different from themselves.


**AN:** **AU**

Unbeknownst to me prior to this challenge, Centaurs turned away an opportunity to be classified as Magical Beings alongside witches, wizards, Veela, and Giants. Their primary protest was a deep desire to not share a classification with "dark beings" such as vampires or werefolk. It was a revelation that got my mind turning; reflecting on other peoples who had chosen to live separate from a larger society rather than conform their principles to something they found unacceptable. Centaurs, along with Merpeople, had _chosen_ to be divided away from other Beings because the compromise asked of them was too much.

To me, it spoke of a set of strongly held beliefs; and I found it ironic that it would be in a most human expression of self-awareness that Centaurs might be judged as "beasts". In any case, it is a sandbox that is full to the brim for exploring what it means to live by principles, and I thought that it could be fun to play in.

Ronwyn is an Irish name in keeping with on the Rowling's known Centaur characters, Ronan, but one of my own devices since no female Centaurs were made known in canon.

All acknowledgement to George RR Martin for the "wars to come' line towards the end which is lifted directly from his _A Song of Ice and Fire_.

I guess I envision this as being sometime just before the on-set of the first Wizarding War, but I do not have a specific time mapped out. For that reason, I will list this story as definitively AU.

Rigel Kent is another name for Alpha Centauri; one of the primary stars in the constellation Centaurus. For the obvious reasons, it seemed an apt addition here.

Lastly, there are more than a few allusions to astrology within. Centaurs were said to be master practitioners so I used it to inform my language and imagery.

**Of Rigel Kent**

The new moon cast no shadow, and the sand of the Black Lake was dull and gray like granite. No night was better for observing.

_And for not being observed_.

Ronwyn approached the soft, wet shoreline with less apprehension than she should have; the cover of darkness washed away colours, and inhibitions. Granted, there was nothing wrong with her being on the castle grounds, per se, but one need never worry about getting mixed up in the messiness of human affairs if one were to remain unseen, invisible.

_Here, but not _here_._ She smiled to herself—self-satisfied—and lowered down onto her haunches into the forgiving comfort of the sand. _Far too human, Ronwyn._ She retrieved the small, black notebook and a pencil from the pouch slung across her torso and turned her face up towards the stars. The night dazzled with light and future potents; a powerful confluence; a fire trine.

She sketched and noted, her heart full of grace, ascent—a conjunct of tension and power. She had lost herself to the art.

Until the coat along her back bristled a warning. Ronwyn breathed deep the scent of forest pine and dark night; beasts of another nation. The lake lapped at her hooves, carrying its message.

_In a bottle, of all things._ Ronwyn whickered her approval and turned her head aside.

"You're curiosity betrays your instinct to survive, young one."

He was by no means young, for a human; but to Ronwyn's kind, he was still a colt—full of awkwardness and stumbling. Tall and lanky, he ambled out of the shadows of a stand of trees, his face turned down towards his feet. It was an effort for him to look at her.

"You need not be afraid of me, child," she said, turning a bit more to face him. "You have been here before. I am not unaware." She busied herself by cleaning off the bottle she had retrieved from the lake. She dipped it into the water, brushing it gently with her hands to remove all of the sand. Ronwyn knew by now that ignoring this particular human was the best way to get him to speak.

"I could not sleep," he said after some time. "I had thought to walk a bit—to clear my head."

"And has it worked?"

"No," was all he said in reply. He sat down some ways away from her, but in her sightline. It was a respect she was not used to from the Beings she'd encountered before.

Then again, this one wasn't much like _any_ of the Beings she'd encountered before.

"This is an optimal time for casting into the future, if you wish to join me." Ronwyn fetched up her pencil and notebook, and tilted her head back, returning her attention to the sky. She realized she was in a very vulnerable position, her neck extended and exposed; her powerful legs curled beneath the bulk of her body where they could do her little good. She was showing her trust in him.

Would he see it? Would she regret it?

The lanky, awkward male siddled closer and turned his own gaze skyward. She listened as his breath seemed to deepen and slow; his heart, so clearly audible to _her_ ears, now quiet from the drumbeat of anxiety that it had been in when she first noted his presence. Ronwyn, too, felt the shift in the air about them; it augured great and terrible things.

And a star shot across the sky, a flame of portent at its back. Albus gasped, breaking the spell of peace between them. Ronwyn's head snapped around, and their eyes met.

His eyes, more than anything, were haunted.

"It is not a wonder you do not sleep," she said, "if you already know what I now do." She rose, graceful and lithe for all her size and strength.

"So you have seen it, too?" he asked, far too eager. Or was it fervour she detected. Humans did not tend to put any special stock in prophecy; at least this one didn't. Yet here he was, clinging to her every word.

_Why?_

Ronwyn didn't answer right away. She read the message left for her from the bottle that had washed up along the edge of the lake. She read it again, and again. Only then did she re-focus her attention on the male human before her.

_When had he gotten so close?_

"A life as short as yours lurches from tumult to tumult; a falling leaf fluttering in the wind. It is nothing short of constant chaos for those of your ilk." She reached back for her notebook and tore out a page.

He lurched forward, grabbing at her arm. She knew the smallest flinch would have sent him flying, such was the strength of even a female Centaur; but Ronwyn found herself so dumbfounded by his naivete that she froze, staring. "But, the world could be in great peril?"

Ronwyn clamped down on his hand, pinning him in place as she leaned in, menacingly. "Is it not always so?" Her grin had no mirth in it. "There is something about your kind; the way you separate—the way you tear each other apart—it's not a wonder to me that the world is in peril." She released him with force, his clumsy form falling to the sand, sliding away from her in terror. Faced with her full height and power, his face betrayed the regret he felt at having pushed.

"You _think_ you can ensnare me and my kind into doing your dirty deeds?" Ronwyn advanced on him slowly, backing Albus up into the water itself. She leaned in "You should read more history, young wizard," she seethed. "We've been here before."

She reached toward him, only to slip a long, muscular arm past him to barely break the water's surface; a small 'plop' sounded in Albus' ear, but his eyes remained locked on the Centaur. "We refused you _then_, too."

"I—I kn—kn—know," he stammered, "b—but I—I—I had t—to tr—tr—try."

Ronwyn pulled back and looked him over. Even soaking wet and cowering, Albus Dumbledore was clearly a powerful wizard; someone who commanded respect among his peers. And yet, here and now—and in his visits past—he showed her deferrence, respect. He made it clear that despite her categorization as a 'beast', he saw her as much more. He treated her as an equal.

"You fear me," she said, finally, after many moments of silence.

"Yes."

"Yet you came to me all the same."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Our need is great," he whispered. "Dire, even."

Ronwyn reached out a hand and offered it to the drowned wizard, pulling him up and out of the water. She backed up, creating space for him to return back to dry land while not being too close.

"It must be great indeed for you to have taken such a chance with your very life."

Albus had barely finished waving a warming charm over his shivering body when the wind blew through him like a sharp, cold knife. He pulled his robes tight and looked up to see Ronwyn standing at the waterline, her arms raised—mane whipping about her shoulders—water frothing into small white caps—a bottle bobbing, flailing, capsizing out in the deepwater of the lake.

Albus rushed to the lakeside, careful to keep his distance from the Centaur. "The bottle," he breathed. "Where? How?"

Ronwyn smiled; or as much as she could manage to match that most human facial expression. "We were not the only ones to turn down your _last_ offer of 'being-hood', human," she said. "It has created a sort of odd alliance; a kinship."

Her eyes peeled away from Albus' to look out beyond him, to the water. Albus turned in time to see the ghostly green hand emerge from the black, grasp the bottle, and drag it down beneath the waves.

"Merpeople," he whispered and sunk back to his knees. Ronwyn thought he looked the very epitome of desperation. She was not sure she understood. When he turned his face back up to look at her again, it glistened.

"There are things about us; about humans," he started. "Things you should know—"

She raised a hand, cutting him off. "We know all we wish to know about _you_."

"But we are fighting for what _good_ remains? Will you not help?"

"We did not assist before."

"Yes, but—"

"Do vampires still exist?" she asked, her pause pregnant with the implication. "Werefolk and hags?" She took a step towards him, lowering her voice. "Are _they _still considered 'beings'?"

He nodded.

"You cannot have the good you so desperately fight for, because you go out of your way to protect evil," she spat. "If we help you with this war or not; there will inevitably be others. It is your _true _nature." She turned her face back to the night sky, its constellations having shifted overhead as they were wont to do. "There are always more wars. It is written in the stars."

Albus pulled himself up and gathered as much dignity as he could muster. "Should I expect the same reply from the Merfolk?"

"You needn't ask me," Ronwyn replied, smugly. "But I would expect so. Their opinion of your kind is even worse than ours."

He nodded again, making no effort to counter. "There is no chance for us without an alliance."

"Then you will live in darkness. At least, for a time."

He began to shuffle off, his shoulders slumped, his gate slow. Ronwyn found herself having an unfamiliar feeling: regret.

"If it matters—" she called out. Albus turned, his face crumpled with sorrow. She took a ginger step in his direction to close some of the distance. "If it matters, you—_you alone_—have made a very compelling argument for the humans of your kind."

They stood. She thought that she might reach out to him, to show him the comfort of touch that humans seemed to need on occasion; but it was somewhat difficult between species, even now.

"You are the only human I know who has ever come to ask," she said, quietly. "To even do us the dignity of learning our ways so as to approach us respectfully." Her eyes turned up to the forest's edge and she nodded for Albus to look.

His gaze followed hers, stunned by the sight of Centaur after Centaur emerging from between the trees. There had to be at least ten of them.

"They did not believe me," she whispered near his ear. "They did not believe that I could have a civil accord with a human being. Or that he could show such deference to one like me." She stood up straight, her chest pushed forward; proud. "They came to witness a new truth between us."

Albus looked hopeful.

"We will not assist you," she restated clearly, and his dismay returned. "Neither though, will we impede you." She arched an eyebrow as she gazed down at him.

Albus paused, his face thoughtful. And then, he brightened; his eyes widening with realization.

"Bring them to the forest, and we will show no kindness to those you oppose," she confirmed.

"And the water?"

"I imagine it will be frigid and uninviting," she smiled.

He stood up tall, straightening his robes in an effort to reclaim what dignity he could muster. "It is more than I can ask," he said.

"Well, then," she replied, "it is a good thing you did not." Ronwyn reached out a hand to the human male before her, offering it freely and with no malice. Albus clasped it; an agreement to be, and let be.

"Take what is offered, and ask no more." She lifted a hand to her heart and breathed in sharply—almost as if she were suddenly pierced. Her face froze.

"And wait on the boy." It emerged from her lips, but not with her voice.

"The boy?"

Ronwyn only shook her head sadly. "We wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Albus Dumbledore." With that, she left him without so much as a glance back.

And the water on the lakeshore produced another bottle.


End file.
